Divided
by mellsicle
Summary: Another one of those crazy Berlin Wall fics we all know and love. Told from Easts aka Prussias POV. Slight Germancest if you tilt your head and squint real good. Fairly angsty. Rated T specifically for content material no real reason.


Sorry if this fails guys I was hit by a plot bunny last night after a conversation I had with one of my friends about German history and it wouldn't leave me along until I wrote it. I know it seems like there's quite a few holds in it and all that but I tried to fill them. I'm not what you would call a top notch writer but I do try from time to time. I hope you're all going to be gentle on me with this. C:

I seem to have a knack for writing things that have already been done like millions of times over but in this fic is basically another one of those crappy Berlin wall fictions. Obviously Prussia and Germany oriented though there is a cameo of Russia in there. Pardon me for this.

R&&R Please! 8D

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia…only this fiction.

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He had been there for a long time. Standing at the edge of a cliff, arms spread wide like a winged bird, proud and free. The wind had been tearing at his skin, whipping what hair he had around in a torrent of white strands. White. It had become such a dreary colour, ne noticed now as he stared at it in the sliver of glass he had been using as a make shift mirror. It had all been going so well. He had everything, everyone he wanted in the palm of his hands; everything he wanted was there for the taking. He had become so powerful, had risen above so many before him that could not rise to the challenge and became one of the greatest and feared empires of his time. Until the edge of the cliff he stood on began to crumble under the weight of his empire. Pushing a few too many buttons, killing a few too many people, seizing a few too many crowns; and it was then that as the cliff started to crumble he first lost his footing. It had been centuries since he had lost anything. But it was his footing that was the first to go, as the cliff crumbled from solid pillars to nothing beneath his boots and it was he; the great Prussian Empire that was falling along with it. Plummeting towards the rocks at the bottom of the fictional canyon.

Falling…falling. Is this what it felt like to fall? He had always wondered what he would do if his empire fell. What would become of him once his throne was stolen from beneath him, what would happen? But it had always been a 'what if' statement. He could never actually see it happening and now as he lost everything all at once he felt like this was it. His eternal 'what if' had become an eternal 'I told you so'. He had no more wings, no more freedom as the once mighty, free bird had his wings clipped, was thrown in a cage that was far too small for him and stripped naked for the world to see. There was nothing left for him. He had everything taken from him like he had done to others, taking not but a sideways glance at the damage he had done.

Gilbert knew then why the colour white had become an eyesore for him. He had lived with it for as long as he could remember. He had been born with the sullen white locks that swayed atop his head with any given breeze. Light and airy. It had not gotten any lighter with age, nor had it gotten any darker. But over the past years, months, days…even weeks his hair had lost that shine and splendor it used to have. The once white pile hairs had faded and turned a rough shade of grey. Contrasting greatly with the white vast expanse of snow that was splayed out around him like a blanket of snow. Shimmering, sparkling, and covering everything in its path in the cold, wet, dreary substance. Much like he had done not too many years before. Covering everything in a blanket of thick, red masses. Blood shed, terror—but never once had he rushed head first into a battle he knew he could not win. They had said that the ferocity at which the blood ran cold was the same as the cold, red stare that held his enemies captivated before he drove his sword through their still beating heart. Though those red irises he used to his advantage had since lost their luster much like his hair.

Everything had long since run cold.

He could be compared to a statue he could. Those who walked by him in passing on the street—his people also held captive. Each like a feather, clipped from his once mighty wings—would vouch for this. He sat in the same place, be it day or night. Unmoving. Unwavering. Unblinking. As if he was waiting for something he sat, perched upon the ground, laying in wait. His already pale skin had gone as pale as the snow beneath his body, the only thing that proved he was still human was the dark circles under his eyes that progressed in size and depth with each passing day. Suggesting the sleepless nights and tedious hours of laying awake he had gone through. Though his people had little clue as to who he was, they did not approach the sleepless man. They did not help him for fear that he would come alive at their touch a senile man begging for forgiveness. So still he sat with his back pressed against the wall that had become his cage. Everything was grey. Monotone. Colourless. There was no life here, only the subtle heartbeat of what once was, and what could never be.

Was he ever to see West again? Would he be stuck like this forever with only that subtle heartbeat of past long forgotten as a reminder that he was still alive? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Sometimes he thought it was those receding palpitations that kept him alive. Oh if only they could see him now. The once mighty Prussian empire reduced to nothing but a pile of rubble at the base of a cliff. At the base of his cage, set in stone never to be torn down. Never to be freed from this white prison of utter hatred. Many bruises, cuts and scars dotted his white skin. Telling a story like a dot-to-dot would display a picture. If one could take a knife to that already scared body and carve into it what the dots told them to, they would find a sorrow so deep not even a river of tears could rival it. No pity would bring solace to this lost and tortured soul.

He had watched the people as the days went past. Trying to flee from his side, to the western side; to the better side. He hadn't wanted it to end like this…this was not what he had wanted. The people all around him, climbing, fleeing, dropping like flies with the sound of a rifle going off somewhere in the distance on the other side. The albino stared at the snow as it was dotted with blood around him like the heavens had opened above and released that which he had spilled. Dull red eyes once vibrant with life and excitement slid closed for the first time in what felt like forever. He wondered if West felt like this too. Worn out, beaten, cold…alone. He wondered if this was what England felt like when he had lost his empire. But oh…Prussia had lost so much more than that. He had lost his identity. He had lost himself not only as a nation, but as a person too. Everything he stood for was now gone. Like the snow was gone as the seasons melted together from winter to spring. And even then he continued to wonder. The rifles continued to fire, the Russians continued to patrol, the people continued to die.

He wondered for the last time that day—what day was it? The time had crept past him so slow, yet so fast he couldn't even hope to grasp it. It felt like a hundred years had passed…—what had creating these walls; these cages, done for anyone other than bring more heartache and tears? Why couldn't the guards drop their guns and let the people across to see those which they loved? He was aware that the people from West's side could in fact cross. But he…he could do nothing. Just like West could do nothing. As brothers divided it was their duty to stay on opposite sides of the wall. That and he couldn't get across even if he wanted too. Not with Russia around. As Gilbert—he was no longer Prussia after all—thought of that man; that Nation, something stirred in him. He could hear the speech that had been said a few years ago by a visiting President from America ring out in his head.

"We welcome change and openness; for we believe that freedom and security go together, that the advance of human liberty can only strengthen the cause of world peace. There is one sign the Soviets can make that would be unmistakable, that would advance dramatically the cause of freedom and peace. General Secretary Gorbachev, if you seek peace, if you seek prosperity for the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe, if you seek liberalization, come here to this gate. Mr. Gorbachev, open this gate. Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!" When he had first heard the speech it had meant little to him. He knew that one little President wasn't going to change that mans mind. It wasn't going to reunite anyone. That's what he had thought back then, but now he looked up as people stood about him, protesting violently. Chanting words he knew but couldn't form with his chapped lips. He stared up at them, wishing for their freedom that would never come. Praying to the heavens that they would be let out and all would be right with the world.

This carried on for what were truly only days but to the worn out Gilbert felt like months—years. People continued to gather in front of him. Crowding and pushing, pulling starting fights with one another. Among the people he saw one he knew. A tall man with a scarf, one he had tried to erase from his memories but he never could. He did nothing but watch the crowds swarming around the wall with a smile on his lips and a tune in the air. With a sudden wave of energy he pushed himself off the ground taking a few long shaking strides in the Russians direction, but after laying dormant for so long his legs protested and buckled beneath him. He stood on his hands and knees, hunched over, shaking. He knew he looked pathetic, he felt pathetic too. There wasn't much he could do though as he pounded a fist into the ground as hard as he could and chocked back a sob. He was at the mans feet, close enough to touch him, to pull him down to the ground with him and beat him like the man had done mercilessly to his own wretched body.

But instead he looked up. Gilbert raised his head to make eye contact with this man he despised so much. To dare show his face in Berlin again, look at him with such an innocent face, it was sickening. Not only was it sickening but it offended him more than anything ever had before. Gilbert clenched his teeth and bit back something akin to a growl, red eyes alight with something more than fury or hate, brimming on disgust. Violet and red clashed in a battle unlike any other before; a staring contest of sorts. But all of a sudden people came rushing from their houses, screaming and running towards the check point with grins on their faces. Gilbert broke eye contact with Ivan who only smiled at this, as people young, old and everything in between ran for freedom. They ran for glory, for loved ones for prayers that had been answered.

"You want to be with them…da? Go now, be free little bird." The hands that Ivan had clasped together not minutes before now lay open, out stretched to the sky above as a small yellow bird fluttered into the grey-blue abyss. Gilbert watched the little chick fly free with eyes alight, dancing with hope. He sprung to his feet; all energy that he thought he had lost was once again rekindled. He followed the chick through the crowd, fighting through the people. Something touched his lips that he never again thought would live to see the light of day. It was a smile. Though much more than that, a grin, a fleeting moment for freedom. They were free, free like the bird he once was.

He flung himself through the crowd, through the gates and stumbled as the wave of people behind him also ran to be free. Running into the arms of those that had awaited their return for so many years. His eyes jolted around the faces of the people in the crowd as he continued to run forward searching, waiting, crying out in his mind for the image of those piercing blue eyes he remembered so well. He should have known better than to get his hopes up, to think that West would be waiting for him on the other side, to think that Ludwig would want him to come home—to be free. It was all too much to ask. His legs stopped working, coming to a halt in the middle of the crowd that had met half way. Families reunited, mothers and children back together, brother and sister, husband and wife. His eyes trailed to the ground. He was standing on the road, the road that had first divided them before the wall.

He kicked at it with the toe of his boot, tears swelling up in his eyes and he clenched his teeth once more. Willing those stupid tears to retreat back to where they had come from. But it almost seemed pointless as the spilled over the brims of his eyes anyway. He didn't remember the last time he had cried. Didn't remember what it was like to feel those hot tears leaving stinging trails down his dirty face. He wanted it to stop, he didn't like the way they felt there streaming down his face. Gilbert slid his eyes shut, sobbing quietly. He had hoped, he had prayed that one day they would be reunited. They would be together again as one nation, as a family…had he really hoped too much?

He opened his eyes again. The ex-nation stood in the ever thickening crowd yet it seemed there was a circle around him. It seemed like no one wanted to touch him, to hug him, to congratulate him on his safe return. Was there no one here that wished for his safe return anymore? Or was it that he had spoken his mind too soon? He turned his head around out of curiosity, to see if the circle was as big as he thought it was, only to find that man he had been searching for with the little yellow bird on his shoulder. Arms behind his back in the proper posture, military standard issue uniform as always and a crooked smile on his features as he took in his older brother's appearance.

Gilbert spun on his heels and threw himself at the man before him, letting those tears he had bitten back run freely now. He had nothing to hide anymore, no anger to release, only the warmth of a loved one as he clung so desperately to the front of the coat the blonde wore. When he looked up into those eyes he remembered so vividly, he was greeted with a site he didn't expect to see, his prim and proper brother with tears in his eyes and a grimace on his face. Gilbert's knees buckled beneath him and he fell to the ground, bringing Ludwig with him as the sat on their knees in an embrace that told the long story of two brothers, two nations torn apart. Foreheads pressed together and the ghost of a smile on each pair of lips.

If only the freedom they searched for, could be given as easily as it was taken away.


End file.
